Enforcer

by Sydney J. Bounds

  He was now Leon Greco’s enforcer, and proud of it. Diamond was out. He had some regret that the big spade hadn’t been home when he’d paid his visit, but he’d get the message all right.

  The sky flamed with sunset and lights winked on in the windows of apartment blocks and neat rows of houses as darkness grew long shadows. Cars swished by.

  Well, Muller would be on the job for sure and that gave him an anticipatory thrill. There was nothing Turk liked better than beating up a small guy, and this one was going to suffer. Mr. Greco said he’d been helping himself to the profits and Turk thought anyone who did that was stupid. Mr. Greco paid better than anybody — so Muller had to be taught to behave.

  Turk was wearing a tracksuit, the evening was warm and sweat trickled from his armpits. He wiped his hands down his side, not wanting them to slip when he moved into action.

  A glare of neon showed ahead, just off the highway, and he screwed up his eyes to read the sign:

  MULLER’S USED CAR LOT

  Auto Parts

  He slowed his pace to take a careful look around. The one thing he didn’t need now was a bunch of witnesses.

  But Muller’s place didn’t appear to be busy and, behind the brilliant light of the showroom, was a patch of darkness. There were rows of used cars parked out front, each one gleaming with fresh polish. At the back were the wrecks, dismantled for spare parts, and hundreds of remoulded tyres in great piles.

  Muller did all kinds of jobs for the rackets; disposed of hot items, provided a quick respray and false plates for stolen vehicles, and arranged unregistered cars when needed.

  As Turk approached the office he saw Muller chatting up the help, a nice-looking broad. Robert Muller was young and fair-haired with a smile that showed his perfect teeth. He acted as though he were super-salesman of the year, and dressed in creased slacks, a white shirt and tie.

  Turk walked through the doorway and Muller came to greet him, smiling, offering his hand.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Turk kicked his kneecap, disabling him and bringing tears to his eyes. He gripped Muller by the arms and hauled him outside, pausing in the doorway to call back in a high-pitched squeak: ‘Better get an ambulance, honey. Your boss just met with an accident.’

  He pushed Muller ahead of him, out of the bright lights and down a dark alley between towering stacks of tyres. He was grinning with anticipation. The area behind the office was huge, crammed with rusting wrecks and piles of spare parts; lamps, wheels, radios and batteries from a score of different models. The whole place looked like a scrap dump.

  Muller hobbled along, pleading, ‘I’m not going to make trouble — I’ll give you my wallet — just don’t hurt me any more.’

  Turk forced him into deep shadow. ‘You’ve got it all wrong, bud. I’m here on Mr. Greco’s orders, and he said to work you over some.’

  He squinted into the gloom, picked up an iron bar that had broken off a chassis and hefted it in his hand.

  Muller moaned, ‘Don’t . . . please . . .’

  Turk swung the bar viciously, connecting with Muller’s already damaged kneecap and smashing it. Muller screamed and fell down, rolling in agony on the ground, holding his knee and crying.

  Turk used his foot to push him onto his back and hold him still. Then he swung the iron bar again, splintering in the bone of his other kneecap. Muller’s shriek reached a new crescendo.

  Turk tossed the iron bar aside and strolled away. He could still hear Muller screaming like a demented tomcat when he reached the highway and began a slow jogtrot as an ambulance drew up outside the front office.

  *

  Diamond was striding east along Rampart Street, on his way to Chelsea’s apartment, when the Plymouth pulled up beside him.

  Detective Cave said, ‘Hop in, feller, and I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘You again,’ Diamond grunted, and hesitated.

  Cave’s voice turned sour. ‘Get in for Christ’s sake — I’m doing you a favour.’

  Diamond shrugged and slid into the passenger seat. ‘Esplanade Avenue, since you’re running a taxi service.’

  Cave took the car out into the traffic. ‘I’ve been busy checking you out and it looks like your quitting Greco was the real thing . . . So, you got a job lined up? A place to live?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Well, I’m offering you a job. An honest job, okay?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  Cave detoured to avoid a traffic jam. He lit a cigarette, his pale blue eyes glittering like chips of ice.

  ‘I’ve been a detective for more than twenty years and I’m telling you I’m sick of the job. Times past you could nail some crook and make it stick — today, the germs have got rights, for Christ’s sake! Pull in a mugger who bashes an old lady for her pension and the bleeding-heart liberals scream he’s a victim of circumstances . . . with never a thought for the real victim.’

  Cave started to cough and flipped his half-smoked Marlboro through the open window.

  ‘It’s all rehabilitation these days. If some low-life cops a sentence, he’s out on parole before we’ve filed the paperwork. We’re told they’re misfits, deprived. Unless he’s a bigshot — like your old pal Greco — with a high-powered lawyer. Then he doesn’t get to spend the night in jail because he’s out on bail.’

  ‘And if anyone shoots a cop, the killer is excused and protected and the do-gooders wave banners and scream police victimization. It makes me want to puke. I hate the scumbags.’

  Diamond kept his face blank, watching the tourists inspect the artists’ paintings on the iron railings in Jackson Square.

  Cave asked, ‘D’you reckon Greco is misunderstood?’

  ‘Reckon he’s real mean.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard someone paid a visit to your pad. Turk’s his enforcer now — he had a go at Muller last night. You’ll need to watch out for that chippie of yours.’

  Diamond bared his teeth and laid a black hand on the detective’s arm. ‘Use that word once more about Chelsea and I’ll squash you as I would a bug.’

  Cave glanced sideways at him. ‘I believe you would at that — you’re sure big enough. No offense meant.’

  Diamond removed his hand and Cave went on: ‘As I said, I checked you out. And you ain’t no Louis Armstrong is what I heard. Looked up your army record, and that’s good. So what I’m prepared to do is fix you up as a private investigator — get you a license and a gun. That will give you some legal backing if Greco has a go at your girlfriend. Okay?’

  Diamond was startled, then thoughtful. Finally, he nodded. ‘I like it . . . except I know nothing about investigating.’

  Cave turned the wheel and the car moved into Esplanade Avenue, and began to slow down.

  ‘It’s mostly observation. You keep your eyes open. You ask questions. You listen — everybody loves a good listener. If you do this full-time, you’ll be surprised how much you learn.’

  ‘Surprised is right,’ Diamond said dryly. ‘Do I make money, too?’

  ‘Charge a daily rate. A century would be reasonable, but you can bump it up if you hook a rich client — and expenses, of course. Keep records. And always ask for a retainer so you aren’t left holding an empty hat.’

  Cave pulled in at the curb and stopped. ‘So how about it?’

  ‘You have a deal.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll need a photograph for the license.’

  Diamond looked through his wallet. ‘This do?’

  Cave nodded. ‘I’ll fix it.’

  Diamond climbed out onto the sunlit street and Cave drove away. Chelsea’s apartment was in an old two-storey building and the stairs creaked as he went up. He rang the bell and she unlocked the door and opened it on a chain.

  ‘It’s me, Wash.’

  Chelsea unchained and let him in. ‘You see, I am being careful since you phoned.’

  ‘That’s good. Better safe than sliced.’

  ‘Are you going to move in?’

  Diamond sh
ook his head. ‘No way, baby — that could be dangerous for you.’

  ‘Overnight then, till you find somewhere.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll accept that. Greco isn’t likely to move right now, because he’ll expect me to have my guard up. And maybe he’ll figure he’s done enough and not bother any more.’

  He picked his favourite chair and relaxed while Chelsea set the coffee percolating in the kitchen. Her apartment was smaller and cheaper and her housekeeping offhand; but it was bright with orange curtains and maroon rugs and bean cushions. Jazz magazines and records out of their sleeves were scattered in casual chaos. He always had to make an effort to stop himself straightening up after her.

  When she joined him again, he told her about his second meeting with the white detective.

  She pursed her lips. ‘Don’t trust that honky, Wash — he’s up to something.’

  ‘That figures. But a legal gun — why not?’

  Chelsea sipped hot coffee. ‘I’m sorry about your cats. You know I wasn’t keen on them, but what Greco did was nasty. Anyway, I bought you a present.’

  She went into the bedroom and returned holding a brass trumpet. ‘It was cheap, at a pawnshop — but at least you can blow music again.’

  ‘That’s great!’

  Diamond set down his mug and came to his feet. He took the horn and fingered the valves; they’d need some work done on them. He lifted the mouthpiece to his lips as Chelsea put on a record of Rockin’ Chair Blues, blew a few notes experimentally, then joined in the chorus. When the record stopped, he hugged her.

  ‘Thanks, baby. That’s the best present I ever had — it really gives me a lift. Now let’s make music together.’

  *

  The telephone was ringing.

  Chelsea swore and, still half-asleep, groped blindly for the bedside table. She knocked over a water bottle and broke a glass and swore again. Finally she found the receiver.

  ‘D’you know what time it is?’ she screamed into the mouthpiece. ‘It’s the middle of the night!’

  ‘I had my breakfast a couple of hours since.’

  Chelsea thumped Diamond on the shoulder and he came awake immediately. ‘Your detective,’ she mumbled, and stuck her head under the pillow.

  Diamond took the receiver from her and said, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hope I wasn’t interrupting anything. I’ve got your license, and fixed an office. Meet me outside the COIN-OP laundromat on Orleans.’

  Cave cut off and Diamond swung his legs out of bed.

  Chelsea muttered, ‘He’s setting you up, Wash,’ and went back to sleep.

  Diamond took a quick shower and dressed and left her apartment. He rode west along Royal, past antique shops, to Orleans Avenue. His stomach started rumbling when he came to a coffee bar; breakfast would have to wait.

  He wondered what Cave was up to. The Jim Crow attitude wasn’t as strong now that industrialisation had reached the city; but that didn’t mean a white cop had to go out of his way to help a black man.

  He recognized the Plymouth parked beneath a sign:

  COIN-OP

  Laundromat

  The place was busy with young mothers with kids, and bachelors watching their wash go around in the big tubs.

  Cave got out of his car carrying a small suitcase. ‘Some people get up in the morning,’ he said, and nodded towards a side door. A narrow flight of stairs led up to a landing and a single door. Hand-painted on pebbled glass was:

  WASHINGTON T. DIAMOND

  Investigations

  Diamond stared blankly, then felt a stirring of pride. Beyond the door was a cubical office fitted with an ancient desk, swivel chair and a couple of cane chairs. There was a telephone, a battered green filing cabinet and a water cooler.

  Another door led to a second room at the back, furnished with a single bed, shower and mini-kitchen.

  ‘Guess you can rough it here for a while,’ Cave said, watching him closely.

  Diamond was amazed. ‘How come you’ve got everything fixed so fast?’

  ‘Influence. It’s one of those places we use when the Department needs an undercover house.’

  Cave took a brand new plastic I.D. from his own jacket pocket and flipped it open. Diamond looked at his own photograph and personal details under the heading: Licensed Private Investigator.

  Cave placed his suitcase on the desk and opened it. He brought out a revolver in a shoulder holster and two boxes of cartridges.

  ‘You can use this, I guess?’

  ‘I’ve seen a few guns before.’

  ‘Maybe I can arrange for you to use our practice range later on. So all you need are clients, and maybe I can push a few of those your way.’ Cave closed the case with a snap and gave a tight smile. ‘I’ve placed an ad in the Times-Picayune and that should be appearing tomorrow. You can get a listing in Yellow Pages next issue.’

  Diamond said, after a pause. ‘Why are you doing all this? What d’you get out of it?’

  Cave turned pale blue eyes on him, cold and hard as marbles.

  ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, feller. Just be grateful I’m setting you up in business.’

  Chapter Five – Black and Blue Client

  Leon Greco relaxed in the cool comfort of his air-conditioned Ford. Some day, he thought, it would be nice to have a home of his own. Since his arrival in the big time, he seemed to relax only in the back of his car. He spent an hour each day in one or other of his many scattered offices, and in the bedrooms of available women, but otherwise he was always on the move. And his visits had to vary as to time and route.

  He enjoyed his cigar as Kenny, babbling away about some stripper, drove him towards the airport. Both Wash and Muller had been dealt with and Turk seemed to be working out. Play this meeting right and he had an opening to a new life; it was time to withdraw from the rackets — with a safe line to provide plenty of cash.

  Kenny turned off the highway and slid into a parking slot as close to the terminal buildings as he could get. As Greco opened the door and got out, the roar of jet engines swamped him. There was a bustle of electric trolleys and uniformed personnel and passengers. A plane took off, sweeping a dark shadow across the sun.

  ‘Anything you want, Mr. Greco?’

  ‘Not right now, Kenny.’ He lifted his voice. ‘I may be back tonight — if not, in the morning. I’ll phone my time of arrival.’

  He stood motionless, watching Kenny drive away, and feeling exposed. It was a long time since he’d gone anywhere without a bodyguard. In some ways — like now, when he needed privacy — Kenny could be a liability.

  He shrugged off his mood, crossed to the ticket office and bought a return flight to Houston. He bought a copy of the local paper, checked his boarding gate and walked through towards the waiting aircraft.

  Since NASA had opened a place in New Orleans, the short hop was routine. More important, the meeting was off his home ground. He boarded, fastened his seatbelt and, when the hostess came round, kept his gaze on the Times-Picayune. He wasn’t looking for attention; he preferred to go unnoticed.

  The plane took off, climbing steadily into a clear blue sky. Slowly, Lake Pontchartrain shrank to a puddle, the Mississippi wound its tortuous way inland and the Gulf of Mexico expanded to a blue-green horizon. He accepted one drink; not to do so would attract attention, but he nursed it throughout the flight.

  He needed a clear head to cope with Madden. An assumed name, of course; but he was aware of the reputation behind the name.

  The flight seemed over almost as soon as it started and the plane glided in to make a smooth landing. He went down the passenger steps and walked towards the terminal building; a clock above the newsstand told him he was on time. He used the escalator to reach the observation deck, glanced around and saw nobody he recognised — just families watching aircraft take-off and land.

  There was a strong smell of jet fuel in the air, which vibrated with engine noise. Madden knew what he was doing, arranging to meet in the open; they co
uld see everyone and nobody could hear what was said.

  He felt suddenly, unaccountably nervous. It was ridiculous; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this way, but then his whole future depended on the meeting going right.

  He folded his newspaper with the title outside.

  A man approached from the top of the escalator, also carrying a newspaper folded so he could read the name: New York Herald. He was about thirty, freshly shaven, with a smell of Cologne and barbered shoulder-length hair. His suit was obviously expensive and discreetly dark. He looked completely self-possessed, a typical up-and-coming executive on his way to the boardroom.

  Cool grey eyes observed the Times-Picayune. ‘Mr. Greco?’

  ‘Yes. Mr. Madden?’

  The younger man nodded and, together, they moved to an isolated part of the observation deck and leaned on the safety rail. They looked out across the airport and watched a Boeing lift off. The air throbbed with noise, deafening them for minutes, and there was no one else anywhere near.

  Madden, too, was on neutral territory, the risk to either man minimal. They put their heads close so they could hear each other.

  Madden had a Northern accent, clipped and precise. ‘I need a team putting together down here. Can you handle that for me?’

  ‘I’ve got contacts. What kind of team do you have in mind?’

  ‘Three strong-arms. Two drivers.’

  ‘I can arrange it. How much?’

  Madden gave him an appraising glance. ‘Ten per cent of the take is usual.’

  ‘Agreed. How long do I have to find them?’

  ‘Take your time. Everything has to be just right before I make a move. I want real cool men, no hotheads, no kids out to prove themselves. And make it clear that no one carries a gun on this job.’

  ‘I’ll see you get the best. I’ll call you when I’ve got your team lined up.’

  ‘Good enough.’ Madden nodded casually, and moved away.

  Greco took particular care not to watch which flight Madden left on. He didn’t want to know, and wanted any hidden observer to be sure of that fact. He phoned a message to be relayed to Kenny to pick him up.